


History Became Legend, Legend Became Myth

by EllenFremedon



Category: Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, History - Fandom, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Unfinished Tales - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate History, Anglo-Saxon, England (Country), Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 05:15:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenFremedon/pseuds/EllenFremedon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Many generations after the reigns of Théoden Ednew and Éomer Éadig, the Rohirrim are known by a different name, and the golden hall Meduseld is abandoned. Weremund and his son Woden must lead their people, now called the Saxons, to new lands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	History Became Legend, Legend Became Myth

**Author's Note:**

> Hullo! I first published this story on ffn, but I figured I might as well post it here. It is not my usual sort of fan fiction, being more along the same lines as the original works I write, which are somewhere in between historical fiction and fantasy. I'm not sure how much will be written, and don't expect to see many familiar LOTR characters, except as names and references to the past. LOTR belongs, of course, to J.R.R. Tolkien.

My people say that we are descended from our god Woden, that our race was begotten by a god. They are young who believe such tales, young and perhaps a trifle forgetful. But I am old, and I remember. I knew Woden – no godling he, but a mortal man, the last of a great people who once roamed this earth. Few men have not heard of them, those fierce lords with hair that gleamed like gold. They were a fair folk, writing no books as we do now, but singing many songs, and their memories were as long as the storied webs that hung in their great golden hall. 

Ah, stranger, I see your eyes alight; you know, or have heard of the men of whom I speak. They were once a very great people, war-like, rejoicing in their strength and deeds of valour. They claimed decent from one greater than even Woden. They were the people of Eorl the Young. Yes you have heard the name – ah you speak of Éomer, our most glorious king of the long past. Yes, we hold him in great honour, and surely he is great in the halls of our fathers. But he comes not into my tale, for he was already long departed in our time, and even his mighty son, Elfwine, was long laid to rest ere then. The tale I have to tell is of his great-great-great-grandson, Wermund, the king of the golden hall of Meduseld, and his son Woden, whose reign was so glorious that all who came after forgot those who came before: forget Elfwine, Éomer and Théoden, forget Thengel and Fengle and Folcwine, Folca, Walda, Brytta, Fréaláf, Helm and Gram, Déor, Goldwine and Frëawine and Fréa and Aldor and Brego and even forget Eorl, for whom we are all named.

They call us Saxon now for the famed knives we carry, but I shall never forget that we are the Eorlingas and that long before the black raven on scarlet flew in the north, we rode to war under the white horse on green that flew over Meduseld when the world was young.


End file.
